


Reps

by Skylark, Swiftling (Skylark)



Series: SASO 2015 [10]
Category: Free!, ダイヤのA | Daiya no A | Ace of Diamond, 弱虫ペダル | Yowamushi Pedal
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Physical Therapy, Spoilers, for all three series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-17
Updated: 2015-11-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:39:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5232518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Skylark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skylark/pseuds/Swiftling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stranger gives Sousuke a half-smile, just a small quirk of his mouth. "Come here often?" he says. His Japanese is sharp and clear, with an inflection that marks him from Tokyo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [disarmingly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/disarmingly/gifts).



> [Original Prompt:](https://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/4403.html?thread=1412915#cmt1412915) "Physical Therapy AU."

It takes Sousuke almost an hour to get to the physical therapist from Samezuka. He chooses it for several reasons: it's far enough away that he won't run into Rin by accident; it specializes in water therapy; and it's well renowned as one of the best training centers in the country, staffed by the same sports medicine experts that work with the Japan's Olympic teams. If he's going to be Rin's rival again someday, the rival he deserves, then Sousuke can't settle for less than the best.  
  
The place isn't just for physical therapy. It's a general training center, with floors dedicated to training for various sports, testing to measure endurance and strength, even a spa. He hasn't bothered glancing at them, though, instead hitting the button for the fourth floor and pulling his cap down lower over his face.  
  
He's usually the only one here at this time. Older athletes are still at work, and younger ones are still at after-school practice or in class. Sousuke pulls up short when he sees someone sitting at the arm bike he usually uses, his white t-shirt transluscent with sweat.   
  
Sousuke's eyes rake over the breadth of his shoulders and the smooth movement of his shoulderblades, then down to the narrow taper of his waist. His arms are thick and strong, but his right one seems a bit jerky as it moves, more hesitant. Sousuke's own shoulder throbs in empathy.  
  
After he checks in with his physical therapist, he chooses another arm bike for himself so that there's one in-between them. The other man glances over at him, and Sousuke blinks. His eyes are a sharp golden brown, his hair fine and thick and curly.  _A foreigner,_  he thinks.   
  
The stranger gives him a half-smile, just a small quirk of his mouth. "Come here often?" he says. His Japanese is sharp and clear, with an inflection that marks him from Tokyo.  
  
Sousuke blinks, then can't help but chuckle. The other man's smile widens before he turns back to the readout on his own arm bike.  
  
"You could say that," Sousuke says. His arms feel a bit stiff as he starts pushing the levers in circles, but he knows from experience that it'll fade in a minute or two. That's what makes this a good warmup for the grueling therapy that's about to follow—no impact, low resistance, aerobic.  
  
For a few minutes they pedal beside each other silently. Sousuke would listen to music, but he occupies himself instead by watching the other man. He's not a swimmer, or Sousuke would know him. But he's not  _un_ familiar, either. He feels like he's seen him around before, somewhere.  
  
Normally he'd keep his own counsel, but something about the way the other man had smiled at him, as if inviting him to a small confidence, loosens his tongue. "What are you in for?" he asks.  
  
The other man's eyes drop, but his answer is calm and clear. "Right rotator cuff."  
  
"Same," Sousuke says, nodding. They share a glance—a wincing, what-can-you-do sort of understanding—and then look back at their bikes. Sousuke thinks that's the end of the conversation, and he's satisfied with that. He almost jumps when the other man speaks again.  
  
"I'm Takigawa," he says. "Takigawa Chris."  
  
_No accent, but an English name,_  Sousuke thinks.  _Half?_  "I'm Yamazaki Sousuke," he says. "I'd shake your hand, but."  
  
Takigawa gives a small amused huff and Sousuke's smile widens with a strange feeling of accomplishment.  
  
After a few more minutes Takigawa's therapist leads him away to start his therapy regime, which begins by inching the fingers of his right hand up and down the wall. Sousuke turns his head to watch him, seeing the way Takigawa's breaths come shorter, the way he clenches his teeth without stopping.  
  
Sousuke hates that exercise. It hurts to stretch the shoulder that way, the pain ratcheting up slowly with every finger-length you gain on the wall. It's a bit weird to watch someone else going through it, to watch the suffering he's so familiar with etched on someone else's face.  
  
When his own warm-up time is finished, Sousuke walks with his trainer past the therapy pool, where he pauses. There's another athlete there, stone-faced as he stands in the pool and does exercises. There's a black weight encircling his left ankle, which he pulls back when he lifts his calf and bends the knee.   
  
"Hamstring curls," Sousuke's therapist says, nodding. "We're doing something similar next, except for your shoulder."  
  
"What happened to him?"  
  
The therapist hesitates, clearly considering patient privacy, before he shrugs. "Cycling accident," he says.  
  
\--

He runs into the cyclist again in the locker room after he's done, his shoulder throbbing even after the ice pack. "Good work today," the other man offers, and Sousuke blinks.  
  
"Oh, you too."  
  
The man accepts this with a graceful tilt of his head. His gaze is penetrating, making Sousuke feel exposed. He turns away and the other man doesn't press for conversation.  
  
He's surprised when he finishes packing his bag and sees the cyclist already packed and hovering by the door, as if he was waiting for him. "I thought you might like some company to the train," he says. "That is, if you don't mind walking a little slower."  
  
Sousuke gives a careful, one-shoulder shrug. "Sure."  
  
On their way out he sees Takigawa still exercising, kneeling on a narrow bench while he lifts a weight with his right arm. He's streaming sweat now, and through the door Sousuke can see a man with yellow hair bent over him, encouraging him. With a blink, he realizes that the trainer is Animal, the guy that's always on the morning shows his mother watches; then he realizes why he's heard the name  _Takigawa Chris_  before.  
  
"Damn," he mutters. His companion turns to him, looking quizzical, and he explains. "The other guy here, Takigawa. I just realized, he's a baseball player. I heard he was amazing, but he got benched with a shoulder injury after his first year."  
  
"What a shame," is the reply. "I was injured in my second year, but at least I was able to continue on. What about you?"  
  
Sousuke flinches, then feels angry at himself for the obvious emotional tell. Kinjou just walks beside him, not pushing, limping a little but only if you knew to look for it.  
  
"Overtraining," he says. "First year."  
  
They don't say anything more until they reach the station. "I'm headed to the other platform," he says, and extends a hand. Surprised, Sousuke takes it.  
  
"Until next week," he says.  
  
"Yeah," Sousuke says, surprised. "See you."  
  
He watches as Kinjou climbs the stairs and crosses the overpass to the other side. Kinjou glances at him once, leaning carefully against the wall, and gives him a small wave before pulling out an mp3 player and a book.   
  
Sousuke doesn't  _watch_  him, exactly. He just glances at him every now and then, arms folded so that his left hand can surreptitiously cradle his right elbow, noting how calm he looks. Sousuke always feels like a wound spring after therapy, restless with his own slow improvement and snappish with pain, but you'd never know that the other man had just endured an hour of torture in the name of athletics.  
  
His train comes, and he stands despite there being empty seats. Maybe he'll catch his name next time, he thinks as his train pulls out of the station.


End file.
